


let's rest for a while, 'til our souls catch us up

by scientificapricot



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Captain Swan January Joy 2021 (Once Upon a Time), F/M, Feelings, but also very soft and comforting, rated T for very vaguely implied sexytimes, some canonical angsty vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29015307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scientificapricot/pseuds/scientificapricot
Summary: A short study on Emma, Killian, and sleep.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 9
Kudos: 52





	let's rest for a while, 'til our souls catch us up

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I’m so so so happy to be taking part in @csjanuaryjoy again (and that I actually got something written for it)! The story I was originally working on (season 2 divergence) ended up taking longer than I expected to write, and a lot of my brain power is drained these days by studying, so it did not get finished in time. I do plan to finish it eventually, and I hope you will enjoy this little fic that I wrote instead. 
> 
> Huge thanks goes out to the CSJJ mods for running the event - @pirateherokillian , @lassluna , @katie-dub , and @ohmightydevviepuu , you guys are awesome! <3 <3 <3 And thank you so very much to @jrob64, who was kind enough to trade dates with me so I had some extra time to work on my piece. 
> 
> Be sure to check out all of the other fantastic content being put out for this event! I know I’ve got some catching up to do!
> 
> Title and lyrics at the end are from Bring on the Wonder by Susan Enan.

_Before._

Emma has a rather complicated relationship with sleep. Being asleep—now that’s wonderful. Floating along in nothingness, a peaceful dark blanket cocooning her. There are few things better, in her opinion, than waking and feeling well-rested. It’s a luxury that she cherishes, for a good night’s sleep, a safe night’s sleep, was a rare thing in her childhood. There were always foster parents to worry about, the other kids in the house, and later, after she’d sworn off any more foster homes, the cold. 

Such a satisfying wake-up is still a bit difficult to come by. Often the alarm jolts her into consciousness far too early for her liking. And her liking is to sleep in quite late indeed. Her favorite nights are when she can go to bed and leave the alarm clock unplugged, and simply rise when her body and mind are ready and the sun is streaming in the windows. 

Of course, being alone, living alone, in the city no less, means she sometimes struggles to get a decent night of rest. Blaring music in the apartment below hers, loud voices in the one adjacent, and strange thumps in the one above often draw her ire when they interrupt her sleep. Earplugs and sandwiching her head between her pillows helps somewhat. But only somewhat. 

So, staying asleep, and waking from sleep, are a bit of a mixed bag for Emma. She doesn’t often remember her dreams, which helps immensely. When she does, there are only fractured pieces that survive until morning—a clang of metal, the vague and blurred face of a small boy, possibly with red hair, and a whisper of a voice. She thinks it’s a man’s but isn’t sure. It sounds sad. Desperate. But it leaves her with a quiet sense of hope. 

She doesn’t really know what it all means, and has learned not to dwell on it. 

Emma’s pretty sure dreams don’t mean anything anyways. Both the kind that visit when one is asleep, and the kind that give purpose and set goals, that’s wrapped up in hope and longing for more. 

One day she’ll change her mind. But not yet. 

Falling asleep gives her the most trouble. It’s a game she plays every night, chasing that rest and relief round and round in circles, until her mind is both exhausted and wired and her limbs shift restlessly against the sheets. The quiet leaves her thoughts loud, and her mind wanders many places, not always places she wants to go. 

In the quiet, there is noise. Quiet is not silence. Quiet has sound, and it often mocks her as she lays in bed in the dark. Taunts her, because it’s _quiet._ It should allow her to sleep. And yet she keeps hearing it. When she can hear it, she’s not sleeping. The ticking of a clock, the drone of the radiator, the hum of the city and the screams of distant sirens in the streets, the gentle rotation of the ceiling fan. She dislikes them, these innocuous and common sounds, because she listens to them every night while waiting to fall asleep. 

In her bedroom, in her bed, the closest sound, the loudest sound, is the flow of blood through her veins, the beat of her heart against her ribcage. She wishes she could drown it out, but even earplugs cannot silence the sound of her own body. 

So every night, Emma waits. Sometimes patiently, sometimes not. She waits to fall from the cliff of wakefulness, to drift down into the oceans of sleep. 

She’s always slept better near the ocean. It leaves her feeling less alone. 

-/-

_Before._

Killian has never been very fond of sleep. Yes, it’s necessary for survival. He’s quite good at surviving, and so he does, in fact, sleep. Just not as often as he probably should, nor for as long as he probably should. Even as a small lad, there was always so much he’d rather be doing that just lying in bed. When he got a bit older, it was less about boredom and more about feeling too exposed, too vulnerable, in the small cots and hammocks afforded to him by his masters. He couldn’t protect himself while asleep, and while having Liam nearby did help, his brother could not always watch over him. 

The dark scared him too. It hid terrible things, unknown things, and he cowered from it for a long time. Until he’d learned to control his fear, to forge a wall of iron around his mind, that the fear could not penetrate. The darkness could though. 

It eventually becomes familiar to him. 

He will one day learn to push it away. But not yet. 

Once he’s long past boyhood, and under ownership of no one but himself, most of the time Killian enjoys waking. His sailor’s blood, churned by the waves and the salty spray of the sea, has always made him an early riser. And it’s often in those short moments, when the night is bidding farewell and the dawn is just peeking over the horizon, painting the sky in a beauty of color, that he finds a modicum of peace. 

There are, however, times when he feels as though he is waking to a nightmare. When, as consciousness first returns and his eyes blink open, he has forgotten that Liam is gone. That Milan is gone. That he is alone. And then the truth breaks over him, a riptide pulling him further out to sea, and he feels their loss tenfold. The pain, the rage, the despair. And he feels _lost._

Killian prefers to rest, not sleep. Sleep does not come easy, and so he’s become accustomed to the sounds that accompany his rest. The soothing creaks of the Jolly as she whispers to him and the lapping waves against her hull are his favorite. He likes listening to the whistle and rush of the wind as it dances over the ocean, while he lays on the deck and gazes at the infinite stars. Even the hum of talk and laughter from the crew’s quarters are usually welcome noise. They keep him hovering at the edge of sleep, not quite awake and yet not quite gone to the lands of his dreams. 

He prefers it that way. He has too many dreams. Too many, too loud, too real, too painful. They come when he is alone in his cabin, when the crew have become muted and even the Jolly has retreated to her rest. They come when he is alone in the quiet, his own breathing echoing in his ears, when he is alone in the dark. 

Sleep brings dreams, and dreams, more often than not, bring memories. Often Killian’s worst. He watches Liam fall over and over again, watches the dust of Milah’s heart gather on the wooden boards of the deck. Every time, he wants to stop it. Tries to stop it. Wants to save them. Every time, he fails. 

The nightmares twist the memories, until his hand and his hook run red with their blood and they beg him to help, and when he cannot, they blame him for their fates. 

Sometimes Killian can dull the dreams with rum, but only in copious amounts. And he cannot do that every night. So for many nights, he just suffers through it. And wakes, eyes wet with tears, to the deep ache of loneliness. 

It’s his secret to keep. He’s never liked sleeping alone. 

-/-

 _Then._

Their first night sleeping together is the night Killian gets his heart back. After Rumplestiltskin is banished, Henry’s search for the author begun, and a long talk of hearts and hands and blackmail and guilt, they fall into bed together. They brand each other’s skin with words of forgiveness and affection (and love), kisses and caresses blending together in a dance that joins them as one. It’s not perfect, as they learn one another, but it’s right. That night, Emma stays in Killian’s room at Granny’s, and they sleep. In his bed, together, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

Deep down, or perhaps not that deep, both are a bit terrified. 

But.

They sleep.

Throughout the six weeks of calm, they spend more nights together. It takes a while for them to truly settle and become used to it. Long years and nights of sleeping alone are not easily stripped away. Emma tends to kick and starfish out, while Killian tends to hoard the blankets. But they work through it. They compromise, they’re patient, and they communicate, until, eventually they sleep well together. 

Killian’s bed becomes a safe haven for them, and even Emma’s bed at the loft sees a few nights of shared rest. Killian listens when Emma needs to talk through her thoughts before she sleeps, and she in turn listens to his when his mind is full of the past. Killian is there for her when the occasional nightmare, new occurrences since she first came to Storybrooke, jolts her awake, and Emma comforts him through his more frequent ones.

When the Jolly Roger is once again moored in the harbor, and the loft too soured by her parents’ secrets, Emma spends a few nights with Killian in his cabin. The narrow bed presents a new learning curve for them, but they’re both rather fast learners. 

Especially when they do so together. 

Emma is fairly certain that there’s no better place to sleep than with Killian at her back and the waves rolling gently beneath her. Killian is sure he’s never slept so well as he does with her so close. 

The bed in Emma’s chambers in Camelot is large and elegant. Too large, for her taste. They end up laying together in the middle of it, edges softened and darkness dimmed. They talk, tell stories, make plans, and watch the flames sink lower in the carved stone fireplace. Killian tries hard, so very hard, to stay awake with her, but every night his eyes eventually drift closed, and his breathing evens out as he falls asleep. Emma is glad that he manages to sleep. She may not need it, but he still does. His company is enough (he is more than enough), most nights, to keep the darkness quiet. 

She comes to have a new appreciation for the quiet.

Killian’s bed in the castle goes unused.

-/-

_Now._

They love their bed at home. They’d picked it out together, somewhere in between the Underworld and wishes and savior lore. There’s room enough to stretch out, and yet they are always within easy reach of the other. They like that.

Together, they are warm and happy.

Emma sleeps easily when her head is resting on Killian’s chest, his heartbeat thumping steady promises against her ear. The warmth of his skin, the firm muscle of his arms, and the softness of his stomach carry her out to the sea of sleep. Killian rests with little trouble when he listens to the rhythmic inhales and exhales of Emma’s breathing. The heat of her body, the twist of her limbs where they tangle with his, and the weight of her head against him coaxes his eyes closed and his mind to let go.

When Emma cannot shake her wakefulness, Killian tells her tales of his life on the water, or reads aloud, low and soothing, from one of the many books on their shelves. She gladly returns the favor when he cannot stamp down his demons. The sound of the other’s voice brings sleep within reach.

They still have nightmares, hers now at a frequency more similar to his after all they’ve suffered. They wake themselves, and they wake each other. 

But. 

They are not alone. 

Together, they are vulnerable and safe.

Emma runs her fingers through Killian’s hair, tracing paths down his face and against his collarbone. Killian pulls the blankets tighter around her and rubs her arms, brushing her hair out of her eyes with gentle movements. They whisper reassurances and reminders and love, so much love, against each other’s skin, so that the nightmares are almost always a distant memory come morning. They wipe at each other’s tears, retrieve tissues and mugs of hot chocolate and tea, open windows to let in the sound of the sea, and turn on lamps to illuminate the here and now of the bedroom. They kiss away the lingering edges of the dark.

Slowly, the nightmares fade. 

With time, and work, and healing, the nightmares will eventually become rare. 

Sleep becomes a friend to both of them.

Though sleep, and the darkness accompanying it, in the past brought feelings of fear and unrest, they never need to try sleeping with a night light. 

They have each other instead.

-/- 

_Bring on the wonder, we got it all wrong_

_We pushed you down deep in our souls, so hang on_

_Bring on the wonder, bring on the song_

_I pushed you down deep in my soul for too long_


End file.
